Visions of Light and Shadow: Wind Rider Chronicles, #4

Prologue

The afternoon sun is high overhead, yet the sky is growing dark. The beam of sunlight that once danced across my page has now fallen into the shadow of a thick blanket of cloud. The wind has changed, too. The light, gentle breeze that flicked playfully at the edges of the parchment just an hour ago is now threatening to blow it off my desk and across the room if I don’t keep it firmly under my hand. It carries with it the heavy scent of rain. A storm is coming.

I gaze out over my garden, watching as the stems of the growing plants wave erratically, and the branches of the trees overhead are tossed about. The three young saplings growing along the garden’s edge are taller now, and stronger, but they too are swaying under the force of the coming storm. There is no way to shield them; the inner strength of their trunks, and the depth of their roots, must work together to keep them standing firm. A flicker of light illuminates the building darkness and the wind presses the first scattered drops of rain against my face. I close the shutters tightly just as a low rumble of thunder greets my ears.

Aviad’s voice is like the wind at times. It can come as a gentle whisper; a soft brush against the ear that, if we’re not listening for it, is easily lost in the daily clamor that surrounds us. Yet if we dismiss it for too long, that voice grows stronger, shoving aside that which holds our attention, and forcing us to take notice. His voice can also resound like thunder when He pursues us with the force of a tempest that nothing can stand against. I speak as one who disregarded the soft whisper for many years, then raged against the tempest and practically dared it to knock me down. It nearly did, but I am glad for that now. I am no longer the young, arrogant fool that I once was.

One of my favorite tales from history is that of a young nobleman whose father held considerable lands and wealth. Varol’s staff had decimated most of the Shadow’s armies by that time, and the world had settled into an uneasy peace, though pockets of the enemy still lurked. They raided small villages, razed crop fields, and attacked travelers. The nobleman’s father sent him, his brother, and a small party of men to help secure one of his manors, which had borne the brunt of some recent skirmishes. The young noble was on the road, riding alongside his brother, when he suddenly heard a voice speaking to him.

When you get to the crossroads, you must part ways with these men and take the road that leads up into the mountains.

He knew the voice was Aviad’s, but the instructions made no sense to him. Go off alone in such times? And into the mountains no less? He was not prepared to take such a difficult path, nor did he wish to. There was nothing of importance in the mountains.

I am the oldest and heir to my father’s holdings, he thought. I cannot abandon these men on the road, nor my duty to my family.

Your duty to me is greater, Aviad responded. And so is your destiny. You will become a Prophet.

Not me, the young nobleman recoiled from the idea. I am neither a monk nor a scholar, and I don’t want to be. I could never be a Prophet.

When the crossroads was reached, the young nobleman glanced up the path that led toward the mountains, but he did not follow it. He continued onward with his party to the manor they had been asked to secure. From that point on, they seemed to have one stroke of ill fortune after another. First a storm rolled in, pelting them with such a ferocity of wind and rain that they were forced to stop and seek shelter. The storm raged the entire day so that they could go no further. They made camp where they had sheltered, enduring a cold, miserable night with no fire, for there was not a dry piece of wood to be found anywhere.

The next day, they went on their way once more, only to find that a bridge spanning the road had been partially washed away by the storm. It took them half the day to make it sturdy enough to cross. Once again, they were forced to stop and make camp for the night. This time they were able to start a fire, but the light of it attracted a group of bandits, who snuck through their camp while they were sleeping. Before the man on watch could rouse them enough to stop it, several of their supply sacks had been stolen and the bandits had vanished into the surrounding forest.

The men began to grumble, believing their journey to be cursed. What should have been a one-day march was already taking the better part of three.

What terrible luck we’ve had this trip, said the brother.

Yes, terrible luck, the young nobleman replied uneasily.

The final straw came when they rounded a hilltop and saw in the distance an enemy camp set up along the road. They were far too outnumbered to challenge it.

That’s it then, the younger brother said with frustration. There is nothing to do now but turn back and have our father set out with a large enough force to destroy the camp.

The young nobleman was strangely quiet as they made their way back down the road. He knew their troubles were caused by neither a curse, nor bad luck. Aviad had been trying to turn them back all along...or rather, turn him back. This time when they reached the crossroads, he left the party of men in his brother’s charge and did as he’d been told, taking the mountain path. At the end of it he found a monastery, and a group of monks who did not seem at all surprised to find him knocking at their door. The young nobleman, whose name was Elead, did indeed become a Prophet, just as Aviad had told him he would. To this day, he is regarded as one of the greatest Prophets of all time, known for carrying a sword in one hand, and a tome of wisdom in the other.

I suppose that is what makes Elead’s story one of my favorite tales—knowing that one whom history has held in such high regard was not born a hero, but became one by Aviad’s grace. How might such grace transform any one of us—however reluctant—if only we will listen and bend to the will of His voice, whether it comes to us as a whisper, or in a tempest?

It is a lesson Morganne and Elowyn are beginning to learn as their path takes an unexpected turn and they find themselves at a crossroads. The soft whisper of Aviad’s voice is getting stronger, urging them to take a more difficult path; one they do not feel prepared for. Will they listen, or will they stay on the more comfortable and familiar roads they already know? Aviad’s greatest achievements are often made through unlikely heroes—the foolish and the stubborn, the young, and the outcast. He calls us down paths that our doubts and fears would never allow us to tread on our own. Yet once we’ve traveled them, we find that we’re precisely where we were meant to be all along.

Chapter 1

Sleep...

Morganne gently slid a new tome onto the wooden trestle table nearest the hearth. The fire’s warm glow flickered across the ancient leather cover, giving her just enough light to read by. Opening a tome for the first time always made her want to pause and relish the experience. No matter how many of them Jadon gave her, she had not forgotten how truly incredible it was that she was permitted to see them, let alone touch them. While her fingers slid across the tome’s surface, she took a moment to observe what time had done to it. Every crack, gouge, stain, and tear told a story of its own; a hard fall from a shelf, a rough journey as it was rushed from falling monastery to hidden safe-haven, a drop of rain...or perhaps a tear; candle wax, and the drying effects of time as it sat untouched and forgotten for maybe hundreds of years with no one to carefully oil it.

The tome crackled as she opened the cover, and the pungent yet pleasantly familiar smell of must wafted into her face from the parchment pages inside. The outside was fascinating, to be sure, but what was written on the inside...that was even more important. Her eyes widened in anticipation as she took in the feel of the pages between her fingers, and the bold strokes of the handwriting on the page. She was always awed by the intimacy of it—the only remaining connection between her and the hand that had painstakingly formed each letter. She couldn’t help but create an image in her mind of what the writer had been like based on how the letters were written; some were painstakingly uniform, some generously flourished, and others wild and swiftly written, as though the writer couldn’t seem to get the words down quickly enough. The content of the tomes often explained why the scribe had felt such urgency. This tome had the confident script of an experienced scribe. She began to read, noting that the strokes of each letter were strong and smooth, made by a determined, steady hand.

The darkness around me is suffocating. I know not where I am, and when I call out the sound emerges small and insignificant, as though I am adrift alone in a starless sky. Yet there is earth beneath my feet. I pull a stump of candle from my bag and light it with an unsteady hand. There is no other choice but to go forward into the blackness in search of anything good, or at least familiar. It does not take me long to find a village—it is in fact the village where I grew up. The moon has now risen enough that I can save what is left of my candle. In the cold white light, I can see that nothing about the village has changed; the fields, the buildings, the stone church at its heart—they’re all just as they were the day I left for the monastery. Precisely the same.

But that is not the strangest thing about this place. Everyone is asleep. Not in their beds, where they should be in the dark of night, but all about the village. The streets, shops, barns, meadows, church pews—everyplace is littered with sleepers, as though a spell descended upon them and they fell in the midst of whatever they had been doing. There are no traces of despair on their faces, and no fear either. Indeed, they seem most peaceful and content in their state, prosperous even. Carts are laden down with goods, the shops are full of sleepers who appear to have once been waiting customers, and the fields are bursting with crops, ripe for the harvest. Yet the workers are lying on the ground, their sickles in hand. I try to rouse one of them, but he does not respond. So I try to waken others, most of whom stir only slightly, murmur back to me in barely audible tones, then go back to sleep. After many attempts, one man finally opens his eyes. He is quite disoriented at first, but eventually stands and looks about, as perplexed as myself at the state of the village. He joins my desperate efforts, for it is plain to us both that something is dreadfully wrong.

I begin to recognize faces among the sleepers. People I’ve known since my youth; children I once played with, their mothers and sisters, and men my father had labored with in the fields. All were the same age as they had been the last time I visited. With a sick feeling, I stride across the village to my family home. It belongs to my eldest brother now, as Mother and Father have long passed into the realm beyond. I find his wife and youngest child asleep at the well; one bucket full, the other half-lowered to draw more. Trying to wake them proves futile. My pace quickens to a run as the nagging fear drawing my stomach tight becomes real before my eyes. My brother and his sons are all sleeping in the field with their sickles in hand, harvesting barely begun.

I shake my brother as vigorously as I dare. Wake! You must rise, something is wrong! At the sound of my voice he moves, but only as one who shifts positions in his sleep to increase his comfort. I cannot get him to open his eyes. I get the same result with his sons...all except the youngest, who rouses and recognizes me. A smile breaks across his boyish face.

So good of you to visit, Uncle. We’ve missed you—

Behind him a dark shadow suddenly rises from the ground, moving on its own with nothing to cast it. It slithers around him like a serpent, and before I can utter a sound to warn him, he drops into an even deeper sleep than before. However hard I try, I cannot wake him again. I see another shadow slithering toward the other man who had risen. I call out, but again, too late. He succumbs as quickly as my nephew. The shadow finally takes note of me and rushes to my feet. It circles me several times, then passes right through me.

I gasp at the bitter chill that suddenly pierces my body, seeping into my bones, and into every organ. I shiver violently and my heart leaps within my chest as though it knows my end is imminent. My mind begins to slip, and for a moment I believe that I have been abandoned on a mountaintop in a heavy snow storm to freeze to death. After wading through a hopeless wall of frigid white, the only thing left to do is curl into a tight ball beneath my robes and sleep. Peaceful sleep that shuts out the painful cold and replaces it with dreams of blossoming meadows, and soft clouds chasing each other across a perfect blue sky. The vision warms me, and I have no desire to dispel it and return to the freezing snow.

Sleep, a low voice whispers into my mind.

Yes, I think to myself, giving in to the immense weight of my eyelids. I am so very weary, and rest will do me good. I will rise tomorrow and continue my work then.

Sleeeeep, the voice hisses soothingly. I nod, though I know this is wrong. I struggle to focus on the ripe fields I saw in the village; fields with no workers in them. Come winter...the real winter...the villagers will all starve. No, it is not time to sleep. It is time to bring in the harvest, to awaken my brother, his wife, and his children; to awaken the villagers and possibly the rest of the world. This false sleep must be broken at all costs. I fight my fatigue as though my life depends on it, for it most likely does.

With much effort I regain my full awareness. The dark sky returns, and I am back in the village. But where I had seen peaceful sleepers before, I now see the truth. They are not simply sleeping. They are slowly dying all around me, their bodies wasting away while their minds are cradled in a pleasant lie. Unable to defeat humanity by force, the Shadow is now snaring us with deceit. This is a trap of the enemy that I have no way to break on my own.

I bend down to cradle my young nephew’s face. It is barely warm, and his body is gaunt and sickly. He does not have much longer. Tears of anger flow freely down my face. How could this have happened? Once again, I try desperately to wake him, and my brother as well, who appears just as gaunt now that I can truly see. This time they do not even stir. As much as it pains me, I must leave them and find help elsewhere. It is the only chance they have.

I begin my journey, headed toward a nearby shrine dedicated to Immar. It is said to be a place of power for those seeking divine guidance. Along the way I see others like myself, awake and trying to fight the shadows. Some are harvesting abandoned fields; others are attempting to rouse the sleepers around them just as I had done. Men in robes like mine are awakening more than people—they are bringing the long-silenced shrines back to life and gathering lost tomes and relics.

Near the shrine I find that a small group of them are piecing together a broken staff. The shadows do not like it. They shriek and hiss, and to my horror they tear the men to pieces before my eyes. I drop to my knees as waves of sickness overwhelm me. But more men in robes gather—they do not seem surprised or deterred. They take up the pieces of the staff and continue. The staff seems to be the most important thing.

Aren’t you afraid? I ask, After seeing what the shadows did to the men before you?

We fear not death of the body, so long as Aviad keeps watch over our souls, they reply. This is the only way to wake the world, the only way to save it. And so I join them, trying to fit together shattered splinters of wood. My companions’ faces are drawn tight as they work, sweat glistening on their foreheads, sometimes running down their cheeks like tears. The shadows circle us, screeching as each shard of wood is carefully restored. They snatch away the man working across from me. The shock of being taken shows on his face, yet in his eyes I see resignation to his fate, as though he has always known this would be his time. The shadows pull apart his body and devour it, but they cannot claim his soul, and so their hunger does not abate. My stomach lurches, and the sound of my heart fills my hearing. I continue to work anyway, pushing my fingers to move faster in spite of their trembling.

We must hurry, says one of my companions. He is almost here.

Who is almost here? I ask.

The one to whom the staff belongs. He must claim it, else this has all been for nothing.

The shadows hiss and snarl at us, circling like hungry predators. An icy chill brushes my back and my breath stills. I close my eyes, awaiting the worst, but I am not the one taken. I open my eyes to find another of my brethren is gone, a blood-stained scrap of his robe the only thing left to show he was ever here.

Aviad help us, I breathe as the shadows gather more thickly around us. They swirl about, their voices moaning and wailing like the wind in a powerful storm. I begin to feel that I am suffocating inside a black tempest. Focusing on the staff is the only thing that keeps me from succumbing to terror. Finally, it is finished—the staff is whole again, but with one important piece obviously missing—something that had once been fitted at its top.

Where is the missing piece? I ask.

We do not know. Varol’s heir will have it.

But Varol’s line is gone, I reply.

Yes.

Then what good is waiting for someone who can never come? We shall all die here! My eyes grow wide and my heart begins to despair.

Perhaps we will. But the Heir will arrive. Our job is to wait, and protect the staff with our lives if necessary. Nothing else matters.

We move to the shrine, standing closer together, and forming a circle around the staff. We face outward toward the dark, swirling terrors that continue to hunt us, pulling us out one by one for the slaughter. Each time my nerve nearly breaks and I am tempted to flee, I close my eyes and remember my nephew’s withering face. He is but a child and does not deserve such a death. Nor does my brother, the rest of his family, or any of the others in the village. I must do this for them, and all those who cannot fight for themselves. I realize that I am fortunate to be awake; it is a call that must be answered even if it bears a steep price.

The shrieking grows louder, and the rhythm of the black mass around us intensifies. I cannot explain it, but deep within me I know that the one we’ve been waiting for is almost here. The men standing with me know it, too. They begin to sing a hymn so ancient that its origins have been lost. Some believe it was given to men by Aviad himself at the very beginning; the holiest of all songs, the song of life. I wonder if the sleepers can hear it, but the enemy is so thick around us now that I can no longer see them. The song has infuriated them.

One of them breaks the circle and comes close to me, so close that my skin tingles and I shiver with cold. I hear the hiss of death in my ear. Has he come for me this time? The shadow being’s eyes are empty, devoid of any soul or conscience. I am nothing to him, but even worse, he is nothing to himself—he knows only reasonless anger, pain, and gnawing hunger. The kind of hunger that will never be filled. He opens his mouth, ready for his next kill, the stench of rotting flesh on his icy breath. My whole body shakes, but there is no point in running. I pray as I accept my fate, hoping that the rest will endure until the Heir comes.

Sleeeeep... he breathes. I shut my eyes as the black beast rushes toward me—"

A burst of raucous laughter and a splash of ale jerked Morganne’s racing heart back to the present as Broguean the Bard collided with her table. She quickly lifted the tome into the air as the dark, foamy liquid raced toward it along the wooden boards.

My apologies, M’lady for being such a clumsy fool, Broguean slurred, bowing in what was meant to be a gracious manner that sincerely begged forgiveness. But he could barely keep his balance and nearly bumped the table a second time in the attempt. He wisely set his cup down on a neighboring table before wiping hers clean with his sleeve in one swift motion.

Now you can get back to your reading, though perhaps a drink...or two...would make your night more interesting, he said as he winked. My treat, of course...again, with my apologies.

No, thank you, Morganne said tersely, laying the book down again and hovering protectively over it. She did not want to add ale stains to the visual tale of hardships the tome had already endured. My night has been interesting enough on its own. She tried to mask her intense disdain for this man who always managed to irritate her without even trying. Perhaps it was because even during the day he smelled of too much drink, and if there was an overly boisterous night in the tavern, he was sure to be at the center of it.

Broguean had come to Minhaven for the Winter Festival as expected, but for some reason hadn’t left when it ended. Morganne wondered if he intended to stay permanently, in which case it was perhaps time to take leave of Wyman’s spare room and find a place of her own. She had already discussed the possibility with Wyman, since they had never intended to impose on his hospitality for so long, but he had practically begged her not to go. With Broguean haunting the tavern almost every night now, the topic might yet need further discussion.

You do not care for ale, Broguean stated with a disbelieving shake of his head, as though he could not imagine such a possibility. There must be something in Wyman’s stock that you like—simply name it.

Your offer is generous, but truly there is nothing I want right now. And even if there was, I would not risk spilling a drop on such a precious tome as this. Morganne gave him a stern look that might have carried more weight had she been older. Instead of repelling Broguean, her expression only seemed to amuse him. Sometimes she wished she had her mother’s ability to still a room with nothing more than a sharp glance, though she was grateful she didn’t have the raging temper that went along with it. Such books are—irreplaceable, she said with as much authority as she could muster.

Broguean leaned curiously over the table to get a better look at what she was reading, swaying slightly as he did so. Morganne watched as he struggled to bring his eyes into focus. He stared at the open page for what felt like a long time, his expression changing from jovial curiosity, to respectful recognition, to a sobered bitterness. He finally huffed and pointed an unsteady finger at the page.

Aviad forgive me, he breathed, his voice so low it was almost a moan. I believe in the prophecies sure as I believe in the rising sun. But the prophet just may have got that one wrong.

Morganne had never seen Broguean so serious, or saddened. Behind the reddened cheeks and glassy eyes, there was a painful wound she could not name. She suddenly noticed his age...the wrinkles spreading out like branches from the corners of his eyes, the thinning brown hair showing its first streaks of grey, the sag of his face and chin. His words and sudden change of demeanor had startled her, but before she could gather her wits enough to ask him what he meant, he broke into a toothy smile and whirled away, grabbing his cup and downing its contents with renewed vigor.

Time for a riddle! Broguean called out in a lively tone, his somber mood swiftly wiped away as though Morganne had only imagined it.

For us to solve, or for you? Finnian asked, a wave of his tousled dark hair dropping across his brow. He swiped it away with annoyance only to have it stubbornly return a moment later.

Better be for us, Ham replied. My mug is drained and I’m out of coin. He looked into the bottom of his cup regretfully. By contrast, Ham’s fair hair was neat and pulled back tightly. But the bright red of his stubby nose and round cheeks betrayed how much he’d had already.

Aye, for you, Broguean said. "I am feeling generous tonight. Ready? Listen careful now...I am quiet, but my home is not. It endures the ages and does not rest, even when I must. My existence is brief, yet I am swift and strong. Aviad has bound our fates together...me and my house. Should we be parted, my death is assured. What am I?"

Morganne went back to her reading in the welcome silence that followed, as Finnian and Ham sorted out the clues. No doubt their minds were slow with drink, but their faces were eager. They had always loved riddles. Morganne was surprised there were any left the two hadn’t heard. She tried to ignore everything around her and focus once more on the ancient page, continuing from the point where she had been interrupted by Broguean.

I shut my eyes as the black beast rushes toward me, but I know not if I am to survive the shadow-beast, for at that moment I awake from the dream drenched in sweat. It has been the same every night since the rising of the new moon, every detail of this haunting vision remaining unchanged. Vexed and weary from lack of sleep, I brought it to my brethren. They believe it is an important vision sent by Aviad, as some of them have had similar experiences. I am told that it shall not leave me alone until I scribe it for my order to interpret. In the meanwhile, I have sent a messenger to inquire as to my brother’s health and prosperity—

A tree branch! Finnian was the first to break the silence...and Morganne’s concentration. Ham frowned at him.

How is a branch swift? he challenged, nudging him hard.

Swift enough when I was a boy in trouble, Finnian cringed, rubbing his backside in painful memory. My pa could sure make the air whistle with one.

The wind? Ham tried, though he obviously lacked confidence in the response.

What kind of home does the wind have? Finnian challenged back, nudging his friend hard in return.

The world, of course, Ham sulked. It is never quiet, it lasts through the ages, and should it be destroyed there would be no more wind.

It’s a good guess, Broguean grinned. But it’s not what I am. Keep trying.

The two threw out answers back and forth, each striving to beat the other to the free drink of ale.

Morganne, now thoroughly distracted from her reading, could not help but try to sort out the clues for herself. She had no interest in the drink, of course, only the challenge. Mulling several different possibilities in her mind, she suddenly brightened and whispered to herself, a fish. At least she thought she whispered it, else Broguean had particularly keen hearing.

Oh ho! Broguean swung around, laughing heartily, his face beaming. The lady who doesn’t care for ale has got it! A fish in a river!

The looks of utter surprise Finnian and Ham sent her way covered any traces of disappointment they may have felt at losing.

Morganne’s face grew overly warm, and she was sure her cheeks were changing color. I didn’t mean to spoil your game.

Spoil it? Broguean exclaimed. The whole point of the game is to answer the riddle—which you did beautifully. Now, he rubbed his hands together gleefully. A prize has been promised. What shall it be?

Ham can have it...since he’s out of coin.

If that is your wish, Broguean smiled, waving his hand for another drink.

It’s my lucky night after all, Ham said laughing. I’m in your debt, he nodded to Morganne.

No repayment is necessary, Morganne replied, her cheeks flushing even deeper as she buried her face in the pages of the tome. I’m not thirsty. I just want to read my book in peace, she thought with sudden sympathy for the visiting scholar she had once pestered with questions. She was doing her best not to be quite so rude as he had been in his annoyance.

I want another chance to beat this fiddlehead, Finnian said.

Ham took a long draught from his newly filled cup and grinned. Whenever you’re ready to try, you turnip!

Very well, Broguean obliged. I’ve got plenty more riddles, he assured them, tapping his head.

Morganne wondered if she and her book could make a discreet exit without giving offense. A new riddle would be a welcome distraction that just might help her ease out of the room unnoticed. She had decided to read in the tavern because Elowyn and Adelin were both sleeping, and there wasn’t nearly enough light in their room to read by. But perhaps this particular tome was best read by daylight after all. The images it had brought to mind of living shadows that tore men apart and devoured them were distressing. She had no desire to encounter them in her dreams as this poor monk had night after night.

I am black, my shape smooth and curved. I hang, touching neither sky nor earth— Broguean began. But before he could finish, his riddle was interrupted by a sound that made the entire room freeze with dread. The bells. Those horrible alarm bells that made Morganne’s heart sink and threatened to empty her stomach each time she heard them. They had never rung at night before. What did that mean? Mining season had barely begun, and no one was fool enough to mine at night.

To make things worse, Glak was still gone. There had been a certain unease blanketing Minhaven since his sudden departure before winter. He had left to seek help, to find others who would be willing to stand alongside the Kinship and fight whatever horrors might emerge from the Black Shrine. But no one had heard from Glak since he’d left, and no one had any idea when he might come back...or if he would come back at all. It had been a source of worry for Morganne, but even more so for Elowyn, who had asked more than once, What if he doesn’t return with help? Morganne didn’t have an answer, and no one else seemed to either.

The bells continued to toll while everyone in the room stared wide-eyed like startled deer, unsure of what to do. Wyman emerged from the kitchen drying his hands with a rag. His haunted eyes held memories of the many times the bells had rung before, as though he was reliving each of them anew. For now, he could only wait with the rest of them for the ill tidings that would surely come. It was an agonizing wait that Morganne was all too familiar with, where one was tormented by a barrage of sickening possibilities, each more terrible than the last. And yet somehow the reality that followed always managed to surpass even the worst of their imaginings.

The culprits from the previous attacks had never been caught, or even identified, so the miners had begun the season on edge. They had all met, and for the first time agreed that they would share claims. Working together in groups, with Brant’s men or members of the Kinship standing guard nearby, there would be greater safety. Perhaps also there was a better chance at meeting the new tax demands. For the time being, both concerns outweighed the desire for personal riches. What good was wealth to